


Kintsugi

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Based On Poetry, F/M, I have never had a beignet but it is my goal in life to have one, my god they are so many, so many painting parallels, written for a tumblr writing challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: Bucky looks at you, sees all the lines that just wait to flow onto paper, the arches and curves that make up the wonder that is you. He looks at you, and sees the way you come together, the equations of your proportions, the soft hues of your golden brown skin that contain the complex infinity that stretches wide within you.





	Kintsugi

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a writing challenge hosted by a friend on Tumblr. I picked the prompt "Reasons not to kiss her: She belongs in a museum, and you are merely here to gaze. Look around you, all the signs scream ‘do not touch’. Reasons to kiss her: She loves you, and her eyes are closed and didn’t your mother ever tell you not to leave a good thing waiting?" (from one of my all-time favourite poems).
> 
> I am not a poc, but with this fic I made a conscious choice to make the reader a woman of colour. Representation does matter, and I wanted to contribute something for the wonderful women of colour in this lovely fandom. I know I’ve fallen into the trap of trying to make the reader inserts in my fic as “blank” as possible so people will be able to see themselves in it, but for this fic, for this beautiful prompt, I made a conscious choice about the reader character. I hope you will all appreciate the reader as much as I enjoyed writing her.

_Kintsugi: the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery with lacquer mixed with powdered gold. The art treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise._

* * *

[Originally posted by captainsamerica](https://tmblr.co/Z_lvEo2UIGUsy)

Bucky has never claimed to be a true artist. Sure, he took the same classes Steve did, quit when his friend could no longer afford them. Sure, he had some promise, could sketch a decent still life. But he could never draw like Steve, and that fact is never more obvious than when he looks at you. Bucky looks at you, sees all the lines that just wait to flow onto paper, the arches and curves that make up the wonder that is you. He looks at you, and sees the way you come together, the equations of your proportions, the soft hues of your golden brown skin that contain the complex infinity that stretches wide within you.

He looks at you, and  _knows_. He would never be able to capture it. Even in your most quiet moments, crosslegged on the sofa with a mug of coffee steadily growing colder, you still manage to exude life. Bucky was only ever good with static images. Still lifes. He still remembers the slight frown on mr. Schultz’s face when the old man came to check on his progress with the croqui sketch. It was a perfectly fine sketch, just… Still.

Still has always worked for Bucky. His lost years were only ever merciful when he was kept in cryo, reduced to a still life, brought back much like his sketches; close, but not quite. It seems to him that he’s only ever pretending at living these days, too broken and poorly patched up to truly live. He feels conflicted in your presence; a mechanical man next to such vivaciousness the world has never seen anything like it, and yet… being close to you makes him feel more alive, less still. It’s another equation, a conundrum of variables, and Bucky thinks he’s got it down. With just enough distance he can straddle the line between still and alive. With just enough distance, he can pretend he is worthy of being in your presence.

Steve tells him the two of them used to go to the Met whenever they could, but that he usually spent more time chatting up pretty girls than looking at the art. He feels like he should try again, but then there’s you, and he imagines this is what it feels like to be in the presence of a masterpiece, to admire and adore from a safe distance.

He hasn’t been able to determine if the distance is for his own or your safety.

Distance worked for Steve. He could walk around the galleries for hours, probably would’ve stood with his nose pressed up against every painting to track every brush stroke if he’d been given the chance. But he understood the need for distance, still found comfort in the beauty displayed, always walked home with a spring in his step. Couldn’t this be just as easy?

There is safety in distance. Art is kept at a distance for a reason, and Bucky has acid on his fingertips.

For a while, you circle each other; polite hellos and hidden smiles at messy hair in the morning. He makes sure not to touch when you hand him a steaming mug of coffee one Sunday, pretends he doesn’t feel the lingering look you give him when he retreats to his own room. Maybe he’s got his head screwed on mostly right these days, but he’s still an idiot, still someone who wants more than he feels deserving of. This is enough, he tries to tell himself, counting off every little blessing.

_Coffee just the way he likes it with kind words to follow._

_Your silhouette against the bright sun, rays catching in the tight coils of your hair as you look out onto the city like you can’t believe you’re here._

_Soft footfall with shadows wrapping around you, a the silent greeting in the hallway when sleep refuses you both its company._

It’s good. It’s enough. He is lucky to have that. He’s okay.

* * *

Steve thinks he’s an idiot.

They’re at the Met, and Bucky is standing as close to the artwork as he possibly can, pretending like it’s a viable solution, looking for you in the masterpieces and frowning when he can’t find a trace of you.

Winter finally arrived in New York, wrapping it in cold and snow, and he’s conflicted. It’s a reminder that stirs the small part of him that fears it’s not over, touches at barely healed wounds. But it’s also the ugliest sweater he’s ever seen tossed at him on Christmas Day morning, and the loveliest smile on your lips that he wants to taste and feel it take him over.

“You keep that up, and security’s gonna take issue.”

It’s meant as a joke, but Bucky somehow manages to go off on a rant that ends in a muted confession that he wishes he could kiss you.

“Then ask her out,” Steve says, shrugging his shoulder. “Kiss her goodnight. You used to be good at it.”

How does he tell his friend that despite all the rehabilitation and the most advanced medical tech in the world, he’s not the man in the flickering movie reels he’d seen in the Smithsonian. The man with the infectious smile, the smooth lines, the soft edges only exists in memories. He’s rough now, tainted, patched up too many times to count. He’s trying to relearn kindness, social situations, how to be soft. Steve tries to help, and it’s only because of some strange connection that no amount of cryo or wiping could erase. He tells Steve as much.

“You’re an idiot, Buck. You get along fine with her. She likes your company, I can tell. It’s not like when you and I were kids, it’s not forbidden anymore.”

“I know that.”

“So ask her out, reclaim yourself.”

Bucky wants to tell Steve he’s being about as much a therapist as Bucky is a well-adjusted citizen. Bucky wants to say it laced with a few choice curse words that somehow sit comfortably on his tongue, but the other visitors of the museum would definitely take issue. So instead he shrugs noncommittally and goes back to pursing his lips at the Gaugin. _Ask you out_. As if he would ever be so bold.

* * *

He’s a coward, suspects he’s always been one. Vague memories float through Bucky’s mind of curling up on a small cot in a cramped cabin during the passage to England and trying to keep his breathing even so as not to wake the others, fists clenched tight enough to dig his nails into the palms of his hands. Steve, (un)helpful as always, takes every opportunity he gets to try to (not so) gracefully put Bucky in your vicinity. He runs out of believable excuses to leave after the third time, and Bucky wants to stare daggers, guns and a goddamn bazooka after him.

“He seems to be in a hurry a lot these days,” you comment, getting up on your tiptoes to reach for a bowl in one of the kitchen cupboards.

“He’d better be…” Bucky bites out, rounding the counter.

“I’m sorry?”

Easily reaching the bowls, Bucky plucks one down for you, trying not to feel like such a damn schmuck when his pulse jumps at the grateful smile you shoot him. “Nothing. Just glad to see he’s finally learning something new.”

“And what would that be?”

“Running away from a losing fight.”

You quirk an eyebrow, but don’t ask any more questions, instead turning back to find cereal. Bucky’s mind reels. Arches. Softness. Texture. Light. So much life and his feet are frozen to the ground. Angles and uniform lines next to brush strokes and dimensions.

“God, am I in the way?”

“Huh?”

Bowl in one hand, box of cereal and a carton of milk tucked against your chest with the other. “I feel like I’m in the way,” you reiterate, nudging at the cupboard door with the cereal box to close it. “Is there something you want, Bucky?”

He wants a lot of things. To feel the softness of the skin at the crook of your neck. To hear your laughter. To kiss the corner of your mouth and taste the secrets hidden there. To kiss. To feel. To love. He wants it all.

What he wants is to tell you he’d like to take you out, have dinner somewhere quiet.

What he does is avert his gaze and shake his head, get out of your way. It’s one thing to admire and speak of art. It’s another when it looks right back at you. Steve passes you on your way out, takes one look at Bucky and shakes his head. He’s a god damn coward.

* * *

“Hi.”

He thought he’d managed to slip away unnoticed, and was prepared to offer any of the bullshit excuses he’s stocked up with over the months as soon as he heard the door slide open. To hear your voice is a surprise, even more when you join him on the lounge chair next to the one he’s sitting on. The cushions have already been taken away, but the wicker pleating is tight enough that he can’t be seen through it.

Bucky feels silly for hiding. It’s only people he knows inside, no expectations on him to smile and behave like a human not fucked up by years of torture. It’s only friends and he still has to come out here, sit down and breathe, feel the chilly air against his skin and listen to the hum of the city below.

“Hi.”

He tries not to sound too gruff, too rebuffing in his greeting, eyes you curiously when you sit down in the lounge chair  and kick off your shoes, pulling at the bulky knit sweater to curl up underneath it. You make yourself small, knees against your chest, and he realizes: you’re here for the same reason.

For a while you just sit, and Bucky can feel every nerve in his body sparking. He wants to look, wants to drink you in, wishes he could unstick his tongue and make polite conversation. Instead, he keeps his gaze trained forward, following the lit trails of Central Park in the distance, all too aware of you and seeing you shift in your seat out of the corner of his eyes.

“Do you ever wish the city would just… go to sleep?”

The question takes Bucky by surprise, has him turning to peer at you curiously. Your face, half hidden in shadows, half illuminated by the city lights makes you look enchanted, your gaze pensive while you wait for Bucky to reply.

“I- what?”

“This city, it never shuts down.” It’s not quite an accusation, not quite a lament. “There’s always light, always sound. And much as I love the notion that I could go out to get my favourite sandwich whenever I want, I hate it. Took me months to get used to.”

“It’s… It takes some getting used to,” Bucky supplies, looking back at the city he’s come to call home again.

“Really? Didn’t expect to hear that from a born and raised New Yorker.”

He snickers, his hands lacing together in his lap. “Wasn’t quite this much back when Steve and I were young. Certainly not in Brooklyn. Got the occasional blackout though, felt like the entire borough had died. Coulda heard a pin drop.”

You shift, turning to face him, leaning up against the propped backrest. Your feet peek out from under the sweater, toes curled against the cool air. There’s a smile on your face, gaze soft and somehow both looking at him and gazing into some long forgotten time. It’s an expression fit for the grand galleries of museums, not for this, not for him.

“That must’ve been something.”

“Was what it was.”

He says it like it’s just a fact of his life, and maybe it is. His memory is a patchwork, emotions and sensations sometimes making up for lack of visuals. He knows there were blackouts, knows they increased when the war broke out, but trying to recall it is more like remembering blind. He can’t see himself tucked in bed as lights suddenly flickered out, but he can remember the feeling, the way his pulse jumped, the echo of shouts down the street and the eventual hush that fell over the city. He can barely recall the visit to the Stark Expo, the lights and attractions and the shiny, blinking neon lights, but he’ll never forget the feeling, the sense of grandeur, of being a guy from Brooklyn smack dab in all of that glitz and glam.

For the most part, it doesn’t matter. It’s a life lost, a bridge burned between then and now. He’s glad there is something, glad that there is the memory of family: Rebecca’s laughter, his father’s rough “I’m proud of you” before he shipped out, his mother’s voice in all its wonderful permutations.

“Is what it is, too,” you say, and there’s that look again; the one he wishes he could capture, only now, you’re looking right at him.

* * *

“I’m gonna stab him.”

The light clinking of glass floating through the comms line tells Bucky you’ve picked up another flute of champagne.

“No, you’re not.”

“I am.” You take a sip, continuing with even more conviction: “I am gonna stab him with my heels and then make him wear them because they are the devil’s craftsmanship.”

“I’ll make sure Tony knows,” Natasha speaks to Bucky’s left, quirking an eyebrow.

“Tony’s the devil? I should have known, the man owns far too much Prada…”

There’s a lilting quality to your voice, and Bucky wishes he could be there. It’s the downside of having been blown all over the covers of national and international newspapers alike; benched from undercover missions for all of eternity. Wanda doesn’t seem to mind, but he can tell Natasha is not taking the new rules well. She’s antsy in her corner, eyes flickering between the screens livestreaming video from the bugs planted. You got sent in for this mission along with an agent recommended by Hill. Mission standards have still not changed, no one goes in alone, and it’s a thought Bucky clings to as the minutes tick by and you’re inside waiting for your cue to slip away for the intel locked away in a backroom.

He shakes his head, “I’m sure that’s supposed to make sense…”

You inhale, a no doubt sharp remark on the tip of your tongue, but instead a laughter rings out. Bucky can almost sense the change in atmosphere. Both he and Natasha find the screen connected to the camera closest to your position, zooming in as much as the device allows to see you talking to the mark of this mission. Bucky’s fists clench, unease rising as he watches you engage the target in easy conversation, the words drowning out into feedback noise in his ears. You all know just how thoroughly unpleasant this man is, only a fraction of it saved on a laptop in the building. You handle him with a finesse that’s beyond anything Bucky could ever achieve. The smalltalk, a laugh here, a tilt of your head there, a clink of glasses before you glide away from him to regroup and wait for your mission partner’s signal.

“-ab him? Hello? Bucky?”

Your voice cuts through again, making him flinch and sit upright in his chair.

“What?”

“Daydreaming, are we? You almost had me believe I could actually stab that sad excuse of a human.”

“Sorry.” He fumbles for an excuse, scanning the screens to find you again and ignoring the burning stare Natasha’s giving him. “Long night.”

“At least you don’t have to wear these shoes, or smile at the filth of the earth,” you grumble. Your back is to the camera, but he can clearly see you downing the rest of your champagne.

“At least you have food.”

“You’re so cranky. I told you we should stop by that place on 71st, it’s the best.”

“Another time. You pull out of this in one piece, I’ll buy you whatever you want.”

He can’t see you, but the smile is present in your voice, “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

There should be more words. There should be the smiling man in clips from the museum, the one who knew how to talk to the ladies, the one who had dancehall dates most every weekend. There should be flirting and ease, and not the hollow feeling of uncertainty. Bucky doesn’t know what’s expected, what your reply means. He’s almost relieved when your voice crackles over the line again, all traces of playfulness wiped. The agent has given you the go-ahead. It’s fifteen nervewracking minutes while the only signs of you being alive is the matter-of-fact status updates you give.

Bucky lets out a breath when you declare data transfer complete, sinks back in his chair when you move to meet up with your mission partner at the extraction point. Soon as the two of you are cleared, he shuts down the ops with Romanov and heads back to headquarters. She doesn’t stop smiling the entire way back.

* * *

You’re right. Of course you are.

Between debrief and his immediate need to not see anyone for the next day and, well, _being a damn Avenger,_  it takes time before he gets to talk to you again as anything but a colleague. And when it happens, it’s with a decisive knock on his door, a smile and a “Come on, Bucky, dinner sucks tonight.” He furrows his brow, asks who’s on dinner duty.

“I am. Which is why the rest are getting pizza, and we’ll be eating cajun.”

You’re deceptively strong, pulling him down the corridors and to the elevators. To be fair, Bucky only puts up a token bit of resistance, seeing pictures paint themselves in the white of your teeth as you smile, the bounce of your curls and the way your knuckles tighten from dragging him out the door, pressure he realizes he can only dimly feel because you have taken him by his left hand without hesitation.

Public transit still makes his skin itch, and Bucky’s never been as thankful as when you take note of the tension in his hand as you approach the subway station and quickly steer away to hail a cab. It still feels a little cramped, but it’s only you, him and the driver, and you don’t bat an eye or offer a comment during the mercifully short trip.

There’s a moment’s doubt when Bucky realizes the restaurant is fairly crowded. Crowds make him want to shrink away, fade into the background, but you take his hand as easily as before, and tug with an encouraging smile.

“It’s okay. It’ll be okay, I promise.”

His gaze flickers from you to the restaurant behind you and back, his stomach doing a flip and he’s not entirely sure all of it is nervous apprehension. It’s the way you hold his hand like it’s something you always do, like all of that softness belongs in the roughness of his palm, like he’s not a destructive force waiting to happen.

But you say it’ll be okay.

Okay is a reserved booth in a corner and you allowing him a seat with his back to the wall and a view of the entire dining room, easy conversation while you wait for your order. Okay is an array of scents and colours, tastes that spark across his tongue as he tries everything and decides it’s the best thing he’s ever had. The salmon, the gumbo, the fried chicken, the crawfish, the-

Everything is his favourite until he looks up to see you sucking the juices of the crawfish off your fingers, a smile playing in your eyes. He feels an immediate need both to run away and reach over the table and taste the food from your lips, sure as anything he ever knew that it would taste that much better.

Conversation halts a little, because ever so often his mind drifts to places it has no business going. He almost fears dessert, because you order something that sounds sinful just reading the short description of it from the menu. He’s saved by his own order, beignets still warm with a snowy cover of powdered sugar. He’s not ashamed of the low moan he lets out. Doesn’t even blush when you ask if he needs a moment alone with his dessert. Looks straight into the glitter of your eyes, darker and more enticing in the low light of the room, his lips sticky with sugar:

“How is this even allowed? We’re bringing home more.”

You laugh, pointing out that you could get cheaper beignets, but he’s adamant. One hefty check and a bag of beignets later, he lets you lead him out again. Dusk has fallen over the city, and out of some habit that has survived in his mangled body and mind, he offers you his arm as you walk for a while.  _It’s polite,_  a small voice echoes in his mind. He’s still not worthy of you, of this, of anything, but this is polite. The voice that reminds him sounds like his mother’s and Bucky can’t not trust that voice.

He opens the door for you when you finally hail a cab, sinks a little easier into the seat this time, allows himself to watch the lights of the city as the driver takes them home. It’s all so bright, so close.

“So I think we can definitely put down cajun as something good,” you tell him in the elevator, leaning up against one of the walls.

“It’s my favourite.”

He says it like he means the food. And he does. Beignets are a gift from god. But there’s you. There’s you with crawfish juice on your fingers, arm in arm with him, all golden bronze and shimmer and he’s not quite sure how to wrap his head around all of the impressions, all of the images and moments fighting for top spot.  _All of them,_  he reminds himself quietly. _All of them are good._

Your room is one floor under him, and there’s a moment of silence when the doors slide open. There should be more words. Things he wants to say, but can’t. Things he should probably say, but can’t find. Words that feel like they sit on the tip of your tongue. There should be words, but tonight few of them find their way. When you move, Bucky tenses and it’s not a fear response. It’s tension that comes with sudden anticipation. You move like you want to touch him, and a wild sensation spreads like wildfire through his veins.  _Are you gonna kiss him?_

You don’t.

Slender fingers come to brush at a spot on his chin. Softness against the scrape of his stubble, and Bucky swears his knees buckle a little. You look right at him, showing him a splotch of powdered sugar from the beignets on your thumb, giving it a tentative lick before sucking the digit clean. For a moment, a split second, Bucky fears this is some latent switch, a HYDRA failsafe, because he swears he short circuits.

“Let’s do this again.”

You walk out like nothing has happened, as if the ground didn’t just shift underneath your feet. Then again, you are earth itself, sprung from it’s depths and glowing in the riches and warmth it has bestowed upon you, rooted to it in ways Bucky can’t fathom.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, feeling the pull of the elevator as it takes him up to his floor. “Let’s.”

* * *

“How do you do it?”

They’re back at the Met, Steve wanting to go see a new exhibition. It’s been three months since cajun became Bucky’s favourite, three months of more dinners, of slowly establishing… something. Bucky is not quite sure what to call it. There are moments where he thinks there might be more to the way you touch him, more to your words than he can comprehend. He wants to reciprocate, wants to be sure he’s not being too forward.

“What?”

Steve has the Look, doesn’t even turn from the sculpture he’s gazing at. Bucky knows it, it’s much like the one he saves for you. Parts adoring, parts disbelief, parts complete contentment. It’s the one he’s been giving you all day, it’s the one he can’t help but give you now, head tilting to observe you circling a bronze sculpture two galleries down. It’s a fine piece of art, light catching in the bronze. There is something slightly gravity defying about the way it’s made, you expect balance and gravity to kick in at any moment, but Bucky’s gaze is still drawn to you. Feet crossed one over the other to create a long, twisting line up your body, one hand clutching at your elbow. The same light that catches in the bronze of the sculpture glitters in your dark eyes, sharpens your features. In his eyes, you belong in that room as much as the sculpture.

“Bucky?”

He’s close enough to the doorway that Steve might think Bucky’s just as engrossed in the paintings as he is. His back is to Steve, it’s easy to flit his eyes over to the closest one when he hears his friend’s footsteps coming up behind him.

“How do I do what?”

Bucky wets his lips, trying to collect his thoughts, figure out how to properly formulate them.

“Look at us, what are we doing?” he finally settles on, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket.

“I thought we were appreciating the works of one of the most influential artists from the impressionist era,” Steve quips, and if Bucky hadn’t heard that voice too many times to count, he’d punch his friend in the arm.

“We’re looking,” Bucky clarifies, motioning to the walls. “Steve, you love this. How can you just stand here? How do you not press that eager little face up against every painting in this building? How do you… How do you appreciate without overstepping?”

He’s being so transparent, he’s surprised he manages not to look directly at you and put the nail in the proverbial coffin. Say what you will about Steve, but Bucky knows he’s not stupid. At least not on these matters. Of course he knows Bucky is not being literal. But Steve, and god, Bucky will never be able to thank him enough,  pretends right along with him, barely even glances at him before he’s smiling at the painting he’s pondering.

“Because art is not about touching,” he says without missing a beat. “Not unless you’re the one creating it. I could reach out and touch this, and sure, I might feel the brush strokes, feel the canvas underneath. But it doesn’t give me anything, because I didn’t create it. I look at it to be in awe, to be inspired. To… to feel.”

“To feel?” Bucky sounds a lot more incredulous than he means to, because truly, incredibly, Steve is making sense.

“Art is all about emotion.” And then, just because he’s the same little shit Bucky knew before the serum, he adds: “Kind of like love.”

He somehow manages not to punch Steve for that. Part of it is not wanting to accidentally punch Steve into a painting and cause a scene. Part of it is you skipping in to the both of them from the adjoining gallery. Bucky tries to ignore Steve’s eyes on him. He knows he’s smiling a bit more genuine at your touch, the excitement in your eyes, the tight grip on his hand. Steve should be happy. For once, he’s going to do what Steve does.

He’s going to feel.

* * *

Feeling is… strange. It helps and complicates in equal measures. It’s easier to accept touch, to allow himself closer, to be someone deserving of such kindness and beauty. It’s harder because he feels, and doesn’t know how to channel it, can’t decide how to put words on his affections. Your beauty flows in the abstract, blooms in his chest, but any attempt to put words on it falls flat, deflates on his tongue. His languages are inadequate for how his heart skips a beat when you say his name, how his fingers long to map soft curves and coarse curls and revel in the difference in texture.

But he can’t keep it all to himself, he needs to tell you, needs you to know just how beautiful you are. So he tells himself one evening he can do it, he’ll do it the next morning, he’ll tell you in the soft morning rays that wrap around you like they know you belong to warmth and light. He tells himself. He tells himself.

He tells himself, and when his eyes close the ground opens and he is dropped back into a nightmare that steadily grows like a weed in his soul no matter how many times he tries to uproot it. He fights himself to wake up, to break out of a cage made of fear and correction and darkness, can’t make his limbs relax and move for ten minutes after he starts awake. Bucky doesn’t need to look at the digital watch on his bedside table. It’s too early, too late, too much for his ragged heartbeat to fall back asleep.

When he enters the common room, he’s much too caught up in not flinching at every shadow to express any kind of surprise to find you there. You merely turn your head to look at him, offering a weak smile that Bucky knows is more for show than anything else. He’s done it enough times to recognize the fight to make it seem genuine.

The kettle in the the kitchen is still hot, a mug next to it with tea measured in a strainer. Bucky turns on the kettle again, closes his eyes and lets the soothing bubbling create some much needed white noise for a precious few minutes while he picks out a mug for himself, finds honey and lemon. Your tea is fragrant when he pours water over the strainer, his own promising a comfort that will ease the harshest edges.

“Thank you.”

Your words weigh heavy in the silence, lithe fingers wrapping around the mug, lips pressing against the edge to feel the heat, breathe in the aromatic scent of the blend you’ve picked. It’s a thank you for the tea, a thank you for not prodding, a thank you for this small act of kindness. Bucky observes you as he backs away, enjoying the presence of you, the simple shared space, but doesn’t want to press in too close. When your shoulders finally relax and your hands tip the mug and your full lips pucker to take a sip, he sits down in the closest chair. His own tea tastes a little sharp, he’s overdone the lemon, but it’s still good enough to settle him, to feel the warmth take root and spread from his chest.

“I keep thinking…”

The thing is, there is not a single time piece in the entire common room. No clock on the wall, nor on any table in the room. It’s a deliberate move, Stark wanted them to have a room where they’re not bound by time. So for all Bucky knows, it may have been mere minutes of silence between you, or an hour could have passed. It doesn’t matter. Your voice is low, tempered, smoke wrapping around him.

A breath. “Sometimes it feels like this is all a mistake. That I should not be here,” you continue, head tipped down and curls spilling over your forehead to tease at your eyelashes.

He could say the things that people would expect him to say.  _Me, too. I know the feeling. I’m a monster._  It’s not that they aren’t words swirling around his mind, but there’s a more important question begging to be asked.

“What makes you stay?”

Of course he can’t expect your reasons to work for him. Because of course he feels out of place. Of course he feels like Steve made a mistake bringing him into the fold. Of course he feels he does not deserve the second chance he’s been given. He’s surprised you feel that way, wants to know what keeps you.

You scoot over on the sofa, motions for him to come sit down next to you. “Being here. The good we do.” You huff out a muted laugh, taking another sip of tea. “Cajun.”

His own mug stops halfway to his lips, his eyes flicking to you, to the smile that lingers on your lips and in your eyes. Did you just..?

“I can have the shittiest day you could ever imagine, and… and then I think of you, of that dinner. You looked like a puppy. Everything smeared around your mouth, and then your reaction to the beignets. You looked so happy when you bought a dozen of them.”

“It wasn’t a dozen…” he mutters, feeling a blush creep up on his cheeks, a different kind of warmth building inside.

“I know it was hard for you to follow me that day. But I’m so, so happy you did. You trusted me, and you were so happy, and if I can make someone that happy, then maybe… maybe I’m in the right place after all. Maybe it’s okay even if everything else fails.”

You wet your lips, more words trapped behind the peek of pink tongue, and Bucky does his best to breathe steady, to sit up right because surely this is the world turning on its head.  _Cajun_. Cajun keeps you here, and it’s him and his happiness and-

“Maybe if I can make someone I… someone I love happy, nothing else much matter.”

It’s so simple. You speak as if it’s the simplest truth in the universe, as if loving him was a given. Bucky’s mind reels, tries to accept the input, stares at the solution for an equation that has been worrying him for months. The one where your feelings were an unknown variable, now presented as a constant and rendering the result valid and true.

But-

There are no clocks in the common room, and seconds run away from him and settle in your heart like drops of lead while he tries to fathom your confession. When Bucky finds focus again, you’ve turned away, eyes closed and mug tipped to take another sip. You’ve closed yourself off, somehow wrapped yourself in the darkness that have lurked in the corners.

_You love him._

_You love him._

_You love him._

It remains an unshakable truth with every repetition, and he realizes that no matter Stark’s good intentions, time is stealing a window of opportunity from him, pulling you further into the darkness.

“Hey…”

Bucky has no idea what to say when you set down your mug to rest against your bent knees, eyes still closed and so far away from him. He reaches into memories scattered and incomplete, desperate for something.

_“James, you never play with feelings. You love someone, you show ‘em. You don’t leave a girl hanging.”_

Never has he been so happy hearing his mother’s voice float through his mind, pulling him from his desperation. His hand moves, gentle and soft as he hooks a finger under your jaw to turn so you’ll face him again. Something tugs at his heart when your eyes squeeze shut tighter, expecting to be let down, and for a second he is lost in the beauty of you, the gold that has darkened to rich, burning copper in the dim light, your lashes pressed tight against your cheeks.

Then his lips are on yours, speaking all the things he’s tried to make sense of. Bucky thinks he speaks best when he does so quietly, showing in no uncertain terms how much he loves you, every gentle press a praise meant only for you. When you kiss him back, slow and tentative at first, the faintest sigh slip from him, tension bleeding from his limbs.

You are so soft against him, yet he’s the one feeling himself mold to you, recalibrating as he tastes the sweetness of your tongue swiping quickly across his lips. The world stands still for a while, the illusion of timelessness suddenly made real and Bucky swears he can feel something shift in him. It’s a tightness across his chest, a crushing sensation as if a badly healed fracture is rebroken and set right.

“Bucky?”

“Cajun.” His voice breaks, his smile so wide it almost hurts when he continues: “It’s my favourite.”

“Tell me why.”

“Because I had it with you. Because you took my hand and said it would be okay. Because it was.”

You kiss him again, hungry this time, shifting to straddle him and wrap him up in your warmth. And Bucky suddenly understands. Art is not about touching, not unless you create it. He’s chipped and broken, he has acid on his fingertips.

But you, you kiss him like he’s clay. Like you know what he’s supposed to be, how to coax him from the shapeless chaos. No more still lifes. He breathes against you between kisses, foreheads touching.

“I’m not an easy person to be around.”

And you, all sweet and golden, a darkness that is comforting and warm: “I know, Barnes, it’s okay. It’ll be okay.”


End file.
